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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29859291">acta sanctorum</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewriterofperfectdisasters/pseuds/thewriterofperfectdisasters'>thewriterofperfectdisasters</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Brothers of the Wild North Sea AU, M/M, Monk!Laurent, Monks, probably wrong use of religion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:33:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,493</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29859291</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewriterofperfectdisasters/pseuds/thewriterofperfectdisasters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurent lives a quiet, sheltered life at a monastery. He's content with his humble life... usually. He's been waiting for something to appear on the horizon outside his window that makes him feel alive again, but it's been almost seven years, and it still hasn't come.</p><p>Instead, it washes up in the sand.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. valerian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello! a new WIP as usual (oops). it's based with the same vibes as brothers of the wild north sea by harper fox (excellent btw, if you haven't read it you should!) but isn't strictly following the plot - just the monk/raider idea &gt;:)</p><p>i'm not making promises for updates bc i've started postgrad now, so i'm working on this when i can, but i do have a second chapter done (and a third in the works) so hopefully it won't be months before things are updated.</p><p>**please note that rating, warnings, and tags will be updated as this progresses.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Laurent’s life at the monastery was… uncomplicated. Well, parts of it were. How he came to be here was slightly complicated, but his life had fallen into an easy rhythm of rise, pray, eat, write, pray, eat, write, pray, eat, pray, sleep. Not always in that order, not always confined to those activities, but they were things reliably present in his day.</p><p>Though recently, not so much.</p><p>He loved his work with parchments and inks, with the pigments as bright and vivid as life that had been so carefully afforded him, now he had proven himself. But Laurent was beginning to think even <em>he </em>couldn’t spend his entire life around books – it was pulling the joy from his enjoyment of them, and someone had noticed.</p><p>Which led to him becoming an apprentice in the infirmary under the guidance of Brother Paschal.</p><p>‘You need –’ Paschal took a deep breath. ‘You need to grind it more carefully, to a finer powder.’</p><p>‘I have been grinding things to powder for inks for years, Paschal, I can grind a few grains to powder just as easily.’</p><p>Paschal was old and probably could not afford to be expelling his breath in such a manner as frequently as he was. ‘You grind blocks of pigment already prepared, blocks of <em>powder</em>. These are full grains, you need to take more care to achieve a fine and consistent product.’</p><p>Laurent bit back the retort perched on the edge of his lips and set his shoulders to press the pestle back into the mortar. ‘Yes, Brother Paschal.’</p><p>Paschal sat heavily onto one of the infirmary beds nearby, watching Laurent work more insistently. ‘I know,’ he said quietly, ‘how hard it is for you here.’</p><p>‘I am used to it,’ Laurent said calmly. ‘I have grown accustomed to the ways here.’</p><p>‘It must be hard, coming from where you did, and now accepting this humble life.’</p><p>Laurent stopped grinding and looked over to where Paschal was watching him consideringly. ‘Where I came from doesn’t matter. My path brought me here, and I am content.’</p><p>‘Are you?’</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p>Paschal was quiet for a long moment. ‘Would you like to return to your books, Laurent?’</p><p>‘Why? Am I useless to you here?’</p><p>‘No,’ Paschal shook his head. ‘No, you’re very much the opposite. Arguably one of the better apprentices I’ve had.’</p><p>‘Then why –’</p><p>‘I asked if you were content.’</p><p>Laurent pursed his lips and went back to grinding, methodically pushing the pestle around the bowl. The drag of stone on stone was a comfort in the silence where Laurent could feel Paschal’s heavy gaze on the back of his cassock. ‘I told you I was,’ he said eventually, when it was clear Paschal was waiting for an answer. ‘I am content here.’</p><p>‘Are you happy?’</p><p>‘As I can be.’</p><p>Paschal hummed. ‘You didn’t take much joy in illuminating, did you?’</p><p>‘I prefer to read books,’ Laurent said softly. ‘Not necessarily create them.’</p><p>‘Not a transferable skill either, is it?’</p><p>‘Transferable?’</p><p>Paschal stood and came back to Laurent’s side, looking out the window beside them. ‘A man who can heal is able to make a living outside of a monastery.’</p><p>‘That only proves true if he leaves the monastery.’</p><p>‘Do you want to leave?’ Paschal asked quietly. ‘You can speak plainly, Laurent.’</p><p>‘You know as well as I do that I didn’t want to come here.’ Laurent’s voice was barely above a whisper. He didn’t dare speak it loud enough for anyone to hear him, even if that included Paschal.</p><p>Paschal did hear him, however, and patted him on the shoulder with one hand, taking the pestle from him with the other. ‘I’ll do it. Sit.’</p><p>Laurent moved to the window instead, taking lungfuls of air that came off the ocean in an attempt to rein himself back in. His arms were tight across his own chest, grabbing at the loose fabric of the cassock he was swathed in. He held no particular malice for it, but found himself wanting to puncture his fingers through it, to destroy it a little like it was destroying him.</p><p>‘Laurent?’</p><p>Laurent turned back at the sound of his voice. ‘Yes, sorry, Brother Paschal.’</p><p>‘No need for <em>brother </em>between the two of us,’ Paschal said quietly. ‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’</p><p>Laurent nodded. ‘What can I help you with?’</p><p>‘When was the last time you bathed?’</p><p>‘Yesterday,’ Laurent said, confused. ‘Why?’</p><p>‘Well,’ Paschal paused in grinding, flexing his weathered hands. ‘I find as well as being good for the body, a bath is good for the soul. Would you agree?’</p><p>‘I would.’</p><p>‘Perhaps a bath is in order, then.’</p><p>Laurent’s eyes slid to the pile of things on their workbench that had to be put away or otherwise dealt with. They had just acquired new stock from the village wise woman, and Paschal had said Laurent was to deal with the majority – that way he might gain an appreciation for the final product and not waste it. ‘Are you dismissing me, Paschal?’</p><p>‘Go. Calm your mind, Laurent,’ Paschal waved to the door. ‘If someone questions you, say it’s under my orders.’</p><p>‘It <em>is </em>under your orders.’</p><p>‘Exactly.’</p><p>‘In that case, please don’t strain yourself with the pestle. I’ll come back and do it later.’</p><p>‘By the time you get back, I’ll have finished,’ Paschal said lightly. ‘Just go, Laurent.’</p><p>There was no point in arguing further, not when Paschal was seemingly determined to be rid of Laurent, so he did as he was told and made his way to the bathing pools.</p><p>The monastery was perched on the edge of a sheer cliff, a tiny outcrop that made it impenetrable from the sea, unless you travelled down the beach and climbed the hill. That was of little concern to the monks, however, because the time it took to cover that distance was enough that they could prepare themselves for any unwanted visitors. In the years Laurent had been here, they had never been invaded. As far as he knew, they hadn’t been touched for years before that, either. He thought the other monks were becoming complacent, that maybe the threat of raiders would provide a little spark, a little grit into his days.</p><p>Laurent found himself looking wistfully over the sea as he arrived at the bottom of the path. Parts of the beach here were taken by large rock formations, some of them being pools. They were refreshed each day by the incoming tides, and the monks found them useful for bathing.</p><p>He continued past them, however, around persistent dunes covered with thin, dry grasses that waved in the breeze, until he came to a second set of pools. These were more sheltered, and as far as Laurent could tell, less frequented by the other monks. The pools in general were less frequented by the others than Laurent, but he had never seen anyone in this pool, or even on their way to or from it.</p><p>Laurent pulled his cassock off, placing it neatly on a flattened area of grass to keep sand from the fabric, and carefully stepped into one of the pools.</p><p>He held back a gasp at the freezing temperature, and glared at the water as he went in up to his knees, then further, gritting his teeth harder for each inch of flesh the water caressed. He stood in the middle of the pool, small waves lapping at his navel, and took a breath before dropping under and letting the pool envelop his entire being.</p><p>Laurent broke the surface with a shuddering breath, his eyes snapping open again. There was a string of curses on the tip of his tongue, and he held himself back from using them – in his younger days, he wouldn’t have bothered. The first few times he had used the pools, he had unleashed a tirade that drew a raised eyebrow from his companion, and later, a stern word from the abbot.</p><p>But Laurent had been here six years, closer to seven. He was a monk. He wouldn’t do that.</p><p>He didn’t want to think about <em>why </em>he’d been here that long, because it had never been the plan, but it looked like this would be the rest of his life, whether he liked it or not. He had reached an easy medium now, where if he stayed, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. The worst thing was much worse than a warm, moderately comfortable life, if a little simplistic for his liking.</p><p>Laurent ducked down into the water again, hoping to wash those negative thoughts from his mind. Paschal had sent him here to be rid of them, not to dwell. He didn’t want to disappoint, not when Paschal was the one person who seemed to understand what Laurent was thinking, even without his explicit talk of it.</p><p>With another shake of his head under the water, Laurent pushed all thought from his mind, falling instead into the methodical nature of bathing he had been taught here. Water through the hair, water over the skin, fists of sand rubbed over the skin to cleanse it. Initially, he’d thought the lack of real soaps to be barbaric, but now he found a kind of comfort in the harsh scrubbing of beach sand over his skin. Maybe because it was a kind of assurance he could still feel something other than the draining numbness of what his life had become.</p><p>At least Paschal had rescued him from the scriptorium, from endless sheets of parchment, endless brushes and pigments, the straining of his back and squinting of his eyes when light got too low, and the candles and lamps were lit. At least now Laurent had a truer purpose in the monastery, tending to the ill and injured.</p><p>It had only been a few weeks, but Laurent could already feel an improvement in his spirits, and Paschal’s approving words had done wonders for his damaged soul. He wondered if it might also have something to do with how much sniffing of bottles and powders Paschal had encouraged. Laurent wondered if something had affected him, causing him to feel lighter than he had for months.</p><p>Paschal insisted it was the change of pace and scenery, but Laurent remained unconvinced. It didn’t matter either way, he enjoyed the infirmary, and he was determined to stay there. Determined to show Paschal his faith in him had not been misplaced.</p><p>Laurent rubbed his last fist of sand over his upper arm, and dropped down to rinse it off, keeping his eyes on the horizon. He wanted so badly for something to happen, he was almost tempted to pray for it.</p><p>With a sigh at his own thinking, Laurent stood and made his way to the edge of the pool, where a kind of natural staircase had formed. The rocks were sharp underfoot, and the air bit his skin as he emerged. The shelter of the dune stopped most of the wind from whipping into him, but he still felt the potential in what waved through his hair.</p><p>Usually he would wait for his skin to dry in the air, but the horizon was clouding over, and combined with this wind, Laurent knew a storm was on the way. He wanted to be safe inside the monastery by the time it began, so he pulled his cassock on roughly over his head and adjusted it as he walked.</p><p>Laurent sent a last wistful look over the open sea as he reached the top of the hill, but nothing was coming. No one was coming.</p><p>A fat drop of water landed on his cheek, and Laurent touched it in surprise – was he crying? Another drop, and Laurent turned his face to the sky, a few more hitting his skin. The rain was here, and it sent him scurrying up to the monastery, as fast as his skirts would allow him to.</p><p>He barely made it inside before the heavens opened and seemed to dump its entire contents on the monastery, hammering down on the roof, and making Laurent avoid certain spots of out reflex. The roof needed to be fixed, and somehow it was never the monastery’s main concern. Hallways and stairs could be wet, they could have small pools, even, but as long as the main rooms and halls were covered and sealed from the weather, it was no problem.</p><p>If there had been an issue with the roof like this at home – <em>no</em>. This was his home now. This was the only home he had, and there was no point in pretending otherwise. These men were his family now, they had taken him in, sheltered him, and helped him through his grief and his pain. He didn’t think he would ever leave, never again see the high stone wall or the finery of where he grew up.</p><p>‘Laurent?’</p><p>Laurent blinked and looked around where his feet had taken him – the infirmary. ‘It has started to rain.’</p><p>Paschal looked him over, at the dark marks on his cassock from the drops, then cast his eyes to the ceiling above. ‘Yes,’ he said drily. ‘I know.’</p><p>‘I said I would return to finish grinding the herbs.’</p><p>‘And I said I would have finished by that time.’</p><p>‘And have you?’</p><p>‘No,’ Paschal said, standing aside. ‘I am old, Laurent. My abilities for grinding are not what they once were.’</p><p>Laurent hummed, taking over and looking into the mortar. ‘This is already a fine powder, should this not be stored?’</p><p>‘Yes, it should.’</p><p>Laurent shifted his gaze over to the remaining herbs and frowned. ‘These are things that do not need grinding.’</p><p>‘No, they’re not. Tomorrow we make tinctures.’</p><p>‘I’m excited to learn about them.’ Laurent tilted the mortar. ‘Paschal, what is this?’</p><p>Paschal gestured vaguely. ‘That is a powder.’</p><p>‘Of what?’</p><p>‘Wheat, I believe.’</p><p>Laurent touched his finger to the powder, and brought it to his tongue. ‘You had me grind flour?’</p><p>‘Forgive me, Laurent, you’ve been in the infirmary for just a few short weeks, I don’t trust you yet to prepare the plants that protect the wellbeing of the monastery.’</p><p>Laurent sighed and nodded. ‘May I be excused?’</p><p>‘Of course. You can take the flour down to the kitchens.’</p><p>‘Paschal –’</p><p>‘I am old, Laurent,’ Paschal said, tipping the flour into a bowl and handing it to him. ‘To the kitchens, if you would.’</p><p>Once again, Laurent found himself holding his tongue. ‘Certainly.’</p><p>‘Many thanks.’</p><p>Laurent took the bowl with a considered calmness and made his way from the infirmary. The corridors were getting a little more populated as his fellow monks came inside from their outdoor chores, but that still meant Laurent only saw four people before he reached the busy kitchens.</p><p>‘Brother Laurent!’</p><p>Laurent turned at the sound of his name. ‘Brother Jord,’ he greeted, smiling as his friend came across the room to the door. ‘I have some… flour.’</p><p>‘Oh!’ Jord took the bowl and looked at it in polite confusion. ‘Why?’</p><p>‘I was told to practice my grinding,’ Laurent said. ‘It seems I’m not allowed to touch plants quite yet.’</p><p>Jord hummed. ‘Very nicely ground.’</p><p>‘Thank you, I’ll pass the compliment to Brother Paschal. He did most of the work.’</p><p>‘Oh,’ Jord said again. ‘Is it raining?’ he asked after a long, awkward pause.</p><p>The windows to the kitchen were open, and the heavy fall of water was clear – they were near a corner of the roof, and a small waterfall had already developed there, visible from where they stood. ‘Yes,’ Laurent said, after another of those pauses. ‘Rather heavily, in fact.’</p><p>‘Good for the gardens.’</p><p>‘Yes, though I imagined they were probably watered earlier.’</p><p>‘Well… still.’ Jord looked back to the bowl of flour. ‘Thanks for this!’</p><p>Laurent nodded. ‘Happy to help,’ he said, turning and heading back the way he’d come – back to the infirmary.</p><p>He didn’t quite know what to do with himself, but at least if he was doing something, he’d feel like he was being of some use. He could organise the cupboards, the shelves of little bottles and jars, or maybe straighten the beds, or refold some cloth – <em>something. </em></p><p>Paschal looked unsurprised to see him walk back in, barely glancing up from his sorting of powders and tinctures, as he gestured to a folded pile of cloth. ‘You can cut that, if you want.’</p><p>‘Into what?’ Laurent asked, picking it up. He’d thought it was a blanket, but it seemed to be just a large sheet of fabric. Maybe an older piece of bedding due to be replaced.</p><p>‘Strips and larger pieces for wadding.’</p><p>Laurent nodded, taking a pair of shears from the cupboard bench and starting in on the material. He lost himself in the mindless, repetitive work, and spared no more thought for the ocean and what it held.</p><p>***</p><p>Laurent didn’t sleep much that night. He was almost glad for it, the terrifying howl of the wind as it battered the wooden shutters of his cell window combined with the sound of the sea crashing into itself and slapping against the shore kept him from his own thoughts. Every new wave of rain that hurled itself against the monastery’s stone walls and roof pulled him further from the memories that plagued him – he’d been left here on a bright, sunny day, and right now he was far from that.</p><p>The percussion grounded him, oddly, the beats of rain like a dance he could lose himself in, imagining the twisting of the steps, the smell of the roasted foods and sweet desserts he so desperately missed. Even though it made his bones ache with longing, it was a better memory to spend his time in, rather than dwelling on what lay over the sea.</p><p>Laurent may have dozed over the course of the night, but his mind was swirling with too many things for him to get any real, <em>restful </em>sleep. And he didn’t mind. He got up for the morning prayers and breakfast, and went through his day without a single lingering glance to the ocean, whether from the window of his cell, or the windows of the infirmary. It was just a blue-grey horizon, and very little else.</p><p>If Paschal noticed, he was graceful in not mentioning it, and moreso in directing Laurent to the easiest, most mindless tasks he could find – suddenly there was a lot of linen that required folding. Laurent went about it almost without talking, a rarity that Paschal, once again, decided not to mention.</p><p>By the time Laurent’s day had finished and he’d retreated to his cell, he was ready to sleep. He curled up on his side – too tired to care for any official rules about how he was expected to sleep – and without a thought in his head, he blacked out.</p><p>***</p><p>‘Do you want to talk about it?’</p><p>Laurent looked up from the mysterious metal instrument he was cleaning of brown crusts. ‘Talk about what?’</p><p>Paschal shrugged. ‘You’ve been acting… unusual.’</p><p>‘Just tired.’</p><p>‘Lying isn’t part of our creed, so I believe you.’</p><p>‘Good, it’s the truth.’</p><p>‘I know.’ Paschal glanced out the window. ‘The rain looks to finally be clearing.’</p><p>Laurent hummed in agreement. For the last two days, the skies had been a deep grey-purple, closer to the colour of overripened eggplant than the grey of the clouds that drifted gently over the monastery on any given day. ‘I rather enjoyed the storm.’</p><p>‘I doubt the gardens did. No doubt they’ll be mud by now.’</p><p>‘As long as the brothers don’t run through the dirt like children, it should hold,’ Laurent said absently. These sorts of conversations never used to happen with him, but now they were second nature – the running of the monastery, the planting of the gardens, the harvest when the fields were bright with ears of golden wheat.</p><p>‘True enough,’ Paschal eyed the shore below with a critical eye. ‘Many things wash in after a storm. I’m tempted to go down to the beach.’</p><p>‘And do what? Collect shells and seaweed?’</p><p>‘I rather enjoy the smell of rotting seaweed, don’t you?’</p><p>‘I wouldn’t list it among my favourites.’</p><p>‘Pity,’ Paschal tutted. ‘Go down, see if you find anything useful.’</p><p>Laurent caught himself midway through rolling his eyes and let out the breath he’d been about to use for a rude comment. He nodded, putting down the metal… thing. ‘What am I looking for?’</p><p>‘Oh, anything. Bring some things back, we’ll see if you’ve learned anything.’</p><p>‘I can do that,’ Laurent nodded, turning to leave but pausing at the door. ‘I’m feeling fine, you know.’</p><p>‘I know,’ Paschal said, not looking up from his work. ‘Anything else?’</p><p>‘No, just… no.’</p><p>‘Good. I’ll see you when you return.’</p><p>Laurent took that as a dismissal and left the infirmary, being careful to avoid the brothers cleaning up water from the halls and staircases as he left the monastery’s buildings. He was greeted by Jord and a few others as he made his way to the path for the beach, but he didn’t stop to talk. Paschal had been determined Laurent go to the beach, and that was what he was going to do.</p><p>Maybe he was making Laurent face some perceived fear. Maybe he just genuinely wanted to know what had washed up. Or maybe, just maybe, he wanted Laurent to go instead of himself, because the path down had turned to sludge that slid between Laurent’s toes and made the slope to the sand a treacherous journey. Laurent was learning that Paschal liked to call himself elderly when he simply could not be bothered doing something, but maybe this time there was good reason. Surely, Paschal would’ve ended up ass first in the mud.</p><p>Surely Laurent would’ve liked to see it, even if it counted as some kind of sin.</p><p>Laurent finally reached the sand and watched in dismay as the grains stuck into the mud on his feet, becoming a hideous mix that encased him from the ankles down.</p><p>‘Disgusting,’ he muttered, heading for the sea – he wouldn’t dare rinse this off in the pools his brothers bathed in. That was a bit much, even to satisfy the mood he’d been in for the last few days, even if that mood was improving.</p><p>He rubbed his feet over each other in the water, not even wanting to get his fingers in the thick mud. He watched the brown swirl into the clear ocean water and drift out to sea, only looking up when his feet were clean and free of their earthly prison.</p><p>Down along the water’s edge to his right, there was nothing except the rocks that made up the base of the cliff the monastery sat on. Well, there might be things in there, but nothing that required his immediate attention.</p><p>To Laurent’s left, however, were drag marks. He frowned at them, thinking they perhaps came from an injured animal that had hauled itself up onto the beach. Maybe a seal, or a seal dragging something else? The sea was coming in and had started washing the marks away, but Laurent was determined to find out what had made them, and headed down the shore to follow them.</p><p>The closer he got, the less sure Laurent was that they were simply the marks of a beast. As he headed into the dunes and heard harsh, heavy breathing, that doubt grew, until he climbed over a ridge and saw the last thing he’d expected.</p><p>Lying in the dunes, dark red blossoming over water-heavy fabric, was a body.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i wasn't going to post this yet but i'm having a shit week and wanted attention (sorry!!!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. agrimony</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Laurent stopped in his tracks. It was like he’d seen a ghost – heard a ghost. No one at the monastery spoke his native tongue, the last time he’d heard it being the day he was left here. <i>‘You speak my language?’</i> he asked, the words gentle and familiar as they left his lips on an exhale Laurent felt deep in his bones.</p><p><i>‘Better than you speak mine,’</i> Damen said softly.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>am i posting this instead of sending an essay plan to my supervisor? :^) who knows <strike>it is important to note i also haven't written my essay plan so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯</strike></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The body of a man. Blood seeping from a wound in his abdomen and spreading through his shirt – or maybe it had <em>stopped </em>spreading. Was this man dead?</p><p>Laurent stopped at the top of the dune and looked around, trying to figure out where he could have possibly come from. Obviously he was what had crawled out of the sea and dragged itself here, but Laurent could see no boats or ships, nothing that could provide an answer to the biggest question he now had.</p><p>As he was standing there staring at him, Laurent realised he didn’t even know if the man was alive. He shook himself from the haze he’d found himself in and scrambled into the dip the man was lying in, falling to his knees beside him.</p><p>Laurent’s hands fluttered uselessly over him. He was mere weeks into becoming a physician, and he’d already been handed a severely injured patient. He pushed the man’s wet hair back from his face, biting his lip at the face he was presented with – a true specimen of creation he had no time to admire, because there was a nagging thought in the back of his mind.</p><p>He should check the wound.</p><p>Laurent pulled the shirt up, yanking it out from being tucked into the man’s pants, and tried very hard to ignore the hard muscles under his hands as he poked and prodded around the wound’s edges. Blood flowed easily from what Laurent assumed was a long, deep cut, right above the man’s hip.</p><p>He frowned and pushed his finger into it to ascertain how deep it was, but was broken from his concentration as the body lurched to life with a roar that startled Laurent back into the sand.</p><p>The man was wild-eyed and feral as he spat harsh words at him, pushing his hand over his own wound and shying protectively from Laurent.</p><p>‘I’m trying to help you,’ Laurent said calmly. If this man didn’t understand the words he spoke, maybe he would understand the tone. ‘I’m a physician at the monastery. I can help you.’</p><p>More words Laurent didn’t understand as the man continued trying to move away, further into the dunes. He winced as he moved, gritting his teeth as he pulled his hand from his wound. He gestured at the monastery and said something else that Laurent almost recognised.</p><p>He’d been taught something similar to this language many years ago, so many it felt like a lifetime. <em>‘I… help,’</em> he said, pulling the words from somewhere in the back of his memory. Maybe it was <em>this </em>language he’d been taught. He held his hands out in a gesture of peace and repeated them. <em>‘I help. Church,’</em> he said, pointing to the monastery. <em>‘I church. I help.’</em></p><p>The man tilted his head in confusion. <em>‘Church,’</em> he repeated. <em>‘Help.’</em></p><p><em>‘Yes,’ </em>Laurent nodded, a wave of relief washing over him to have found a common language. <em>‘I help. We go,’ </em>he pointed again to the monastery. <em>‘Help.’</em></p><p>The man swallowed hard and lifted his hand from his wound, a fresh wave of blood pouring out. He slapped his hand back over it and nodded. <em>‘We go.’</em></p><p>‘Okay, yes, good, Paschal will be so glad what I found on the beach,’ Laurent muttered, rolling back to his knees from where he’d been on his ass in the sand. ‘Laurent,’ he said, gesturing to himself. ‘I’m Laurent. Who are you? Who – <em>who you?’</em></p><p>‘Laurent,’ the man repeated, swinging his arm around Laurent’s shoulder as he came to his side to help him up.</p><p>‘No, I’m Laurent. <em>Who you?’ </em>Laurent let out a quiet <em>oof </em>at the man’s weight as they made their way to the edge of the dune and down, narrowly avoiding toppling backwards as the sand slid with their steps.</p><p>The man said nothing, at least not in response to Laurent’s question. He muttered grimly at the trail of blood he’d left behind, and then muttered some more at the monastery the closer they got to it.</p><p>The difference in language and very clear difference in body size and shape and general… <em>look </em>reminded Laurent that he was carrying someone who would likely raid the monastery given the chance. This was an outsider with a – with a <em>large </em>weapon strapped to his side, and he was getting more and more unwieldy the closer they got to the monastery.</p><p>No, not unwieldy. He was on the edge of passing out. Laurent was taking an injured outsider into the monastery, and not a single part of him would stop to consider if this was a trap until after he was already in the infirmary, having been helped to carry him by Jord, who was coming in from the gardens.</p><p>‘Brother Laurent,’ Jord hissed, as he helped haul the man up the steps to the infirmary. ‘This is an <em>exceptionally </em>bad idea.’</p><p>‘Many things are a bad idea, Brother Jord,’ Laurent hissed back, pushing open the infirmary door with his foot. ‘Such as wilfully letting an injured man die on the beach, whether or not he is my enemy.’</p><p>‘I will carry him no further than the doorway,’ Jord said, even as he continued through the threshold and to the closest bed. ‘I will not tell anyone he is here, but I will not help you.’</p><p>‘I don’t need you to,’ Laurent said. ‘Thank you, Jord.’</p><p>Jord eyed the man one last time, and left the infirmary, pulling the door shut behind himself.</p><p>‘Now, what do we have here?’</p><p>Laurent looked up as Paschal appeared from the back storeroom, a small bowl in his hands.</p><p>‘You asked me to bring you something back from the beach.’ Laurent glanced to the man, now mostly unconscious but still mumbling in that foreign tongue. ‘He was on the beach.’</p><p>‘Laurent, you do realise this man is on the verge of death,’ Paschal said, grabbing a few things from the cabinet and pushing his sleeves up. ‘Get that boiled water, quickly now. Clean the wound and help me hold it closed so we can close it.’</p><p>Laurent hauled the man’s legs onto the mattress and quickly grabbed a bucket of water from the enormous cauldron Paschal insisted on having full over a lit fire at every given hour. With his other hand, he grabbed a stack of folded cloth and dropped it into the bucket, grabbing one out and wringing it with one hand as he came back to the bed.</p><p>‘Clean it, Laurent.’ Paschal was doing something to the needle in his hand – cleaning it with some solution of his, before threading it and waiting impatiently for Laurent to finish cleaning. He looked into the wound, poking around for a moment. ‘Nothing pierced. Hold the skin together, it’s a clean cut so if he lives, it will be a tidy scar, at least.’</p><p>‘Clean cut,’ Laurent repeated. ‘That means it was intentional.’</p><p>Paschal glanced up as he pulled the needle through the skin. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Or some kind of luck. A cut like this won’t heal as easily as a jagged rip in the flesh.’</p><p>The man stirred as Paschal pierced his body again with the needle, making the older physician sigh. ‘Sit on his legs. He can’t move while I do this, it could cause more harm.’</p><p>Laurent nodded, manoeuvring himself to sit on the man’s legs while keeping the skin pressed together. Blood was still seeping out, and Laurent wasn’t sure that was a good thing.</p><p>But Paschal was quick and efficient with the needle, and it felt like mere moments before he was tying off the stitches. ‘We have to move him where no one will find him.’</p><p>‘Where? The storeroom?’ Laurent asked doubtfully. It was dark and stuffy in there, with no windows and a very narrow entrance he doubted this man would fit around, let alone being carried between Paschal and Laurent.</p><p>‘Of course not. We’ll put him in the isolation cell.’</p><p>‘What if someone gets plague?’</p><p>‘We’ll just have to hope that doesn’t happen,’ Paschal said, as he grabbed the man under the arms and turned him. ‘Take his legs.’</p><p>Laurent wasn’t sure Paschal could actually carry this man to the isolation cell, but he wasn’t about to try and do it himself, so surely with Paschal would be <em>marginally </em>better than without. He grabbed the man’s legs and nodded to Paschal, who lifted him clear off the bed without hesitation, leaving Laurent surprised and scrambling to pick up the lower half fast enough to follow Paschal.</p><p>They were in the isolation cell within moments, the man laid out on the cot. He was a little dishevelled, but that wasn’t the worst thing he was dealing with.</p><p>‘I think,’ Paschal said, hands on his hips as he surveyed the man’s body. ‘You should probably clean him.’</p><p>Laurent turned to Paschal, slightly bewildered. ‘I beg your pardon?’</p><p>‘Wash him. He can’t be lying there in that state. I’ll fetch some clean water and cloths for you, take the scissors and get that shirt off him. It won’t do him much good in that state.’</p><p>Laurent rubbed the fabric of the shirt between his fingers. ‘This fabric is much too fine to discard so thoughtlessly.’</p><p>Paschal shrugged, watching Laurent trace a section of delicate embroidery on one sleeve. ‘Do what you will, but it needs to come off him. Get as much of his clothes off as you dare, and wash him down. He can’t stay like this.’</p><p>Laurent nodded. ‘I’ll take care of it.’</p><p>‘Good.’ Paschal’s eyes slid to the weapons at the man’s hips. ‘You should probably remove those from him also,’ he muttered, before disappearing, and leaving Laurent to deal with his new charge.</p><p>Laurent cleared his throat. ‘Right,’ he muttered. ‘Just need to get clothes off an unconscious man three times the size of me. Should be fine.’</p><p>He started with the weapons – a long sword attached to one hip, and a shorter dagger at the other, both in fine leather sheathes, and sliding the belt out from under him. Laurent set them aside on the small table in the corner, then turned his attention to the clothing, starting with the shirt. He rucked it up to the man’s armpits – with a little difficulty at the back, afraid it would tear under his weight – and tried to fold it up and over, so he could pull it off inside out. He thought that would probably be the easiest way, and he was mostly right. There was a lot more wiggling and pulling at the shirt than Laurent would’ve liked, but he got it off in one piece, even managing to do so before Paschal arrived back.</p><p>‘Some might think you had practice with that,’ Paschal said, sounding at least partly impressed, as he put down a bucket of water and a stack of cloths on the table in the corner. ‘I’ll get a few things ready for his wound, and something to limit his pain as well. Call me when you’ve finished bathing him, and I’ll help you apply them.’</p><p>Laurent nodded. ‘Thank you, Paschal.’</p><p>Paschal hummed. ‘You know, when I said to bring me something from the beach, I was mostly meaning plants, or perhaps an interesting rock.’</p><p>‘I’ll keep that in mind for next time.’</p><p>‘Yes, God forbid you find another injured man. We’ll have enough difficulty harbouring <em>one</em>.’</p><p>‘I don’t –’ Laurent stopped, glancing to the man, still out cold. ‘You won’t tell anyone he’s here, will you?’</p><p>‘No, of course not. He deserves privacy while he rests, but once he wakes and needs air and exercise, it will be different.’</p><p>‘What about food?’</p><p>‘Easily acquired.’ Paschal nodded to the man. ‘Clean him, Laurent.’</p><p>Laurent looked back to the man, breathing shallow but steady, and his wound now tidily closed, even as it continued to weep blood, albeit only the smallest bit.</p><p>The water was hotter than Laurent had expected, as he plunged his hand and a cloth into the bucket. The fire Paschal insisted on kept the water above gently steaming, heated but not totally boiling, and it was welcome to Laurent’s hands that ached from cold. He suspected it would likely be welcome to this man as well. If he’d been conscious.</p><p>Even so, Laurent was careful as he wiped and dabbed at the dried and drying blood on his abdomen, easing off the crusts that had formed before Laurent found him. There was sand sticking to the man’s skin, and it sullied his cloth much faster than he would’ve liked, even with rinsing it in the bucket Paschal provided. This was, however, not the worst of Laurent’s problems, and he worked quickly and efficiently to clean the man of accumulated grime, even stripping off his boots and pants to clean the saltwater off his skin, and maybe warm him a little.</p><p>Laurent steadfastly ignored what lay between his legs, and did his best to avoid brushing any… <em>areas </em>as he rolled him as much as he could to clean the back of his body as well.</p><p>Mostly satisfied, Laurent gathered a few blankets, and placed them over the man’s lower half, ready for Paschal to return and help Laurent dress the wound.</p><p>Paschal mostly just observed, passing Laurent each item, explaining their use and encouraging him to smell them to familiarise himself with the scent. Paschal didn’t touch their patient, letting him do all the work, and it was something Laurent found himself glad for.</p><p>He didn’t want to jump in to treating the other monks quite yet, unsure of himself in this new and unfamiliar territory. Having to practice on a living and breathing person was a daunting idea, but Laurent found it much easier knowing there was very little he could do to make it worse for this man. He was dying, and without Laurent’s intervention, he would surely continue down that route. That he was unconscious definitely helped though – Laurent didn’t know if he’d be quite as confident in what he was doing if his patient was wiggling around and commenting on things.</p><p>Of course, Paschal’s guidance also helped eased his worries to the point where he barely had any. He was approaching this with very little trepidation, and Paschal seemed pleased with his work.</p><p>‘Excellent,’ Paschal said, beaming as he helped Laurent lie the man flat, now they’d bandaged the wound to Paschal’s liking. ‘You’re a quick study, Laurent.’</p><p>Laurent smiled back. It had been a long time since someone had told him that. Last time it was when he was doing something the opposite of healing, stepping his way across the hard dirt of a training yard, a thin blade stretching from his hand, like a continuation of his arm. Laurent looked down, focusing on refolding unused cloth. ‘Do you think he’ll live?’</p><p>Paschal hummed, tilting his head as he watched Laurent. ‘Do you?’</p><p>‘I hope so. I wouldn’t find it too pleasant if my first actual patient died.’</p><p>‘I think he’ll survive,’ Paschal said softly. ‘You can stay here with him overnight to keep watch, if that would help soothe your nerves.’</p><p>‘I don’t know if my nerves will be soothed until long after I see him up and out of bed and heading away from the monastery,’ Laurent admitted.</p><p>‘Do you think he came here with intent to attack us?’</p><p>‘I think I’ve been hoping for some kind of excitement and now it’s here, I don’t know if I want it.’</p><p>‘Do you think God sent this man?’ Paschal asked.</p><p>‘What, as some kind of treat? Something to affirm my fate, like my prayers had been answered?’ Laurent sighed and moved the cloth to a basket on the table with the dagger and sword. ‘I would be a very bad monk if I prayed for an injured man and got one delivered.’</p><p>‘Maybe not. Maybe you just needed a sign that you’re on the right path, and this is a mere coincidence. You saved this man’s life, Laurent. You’re not the cause of it nearly ending.’</p><p>‘I hope I saved him.’ Laurent’s voice was much smaller than he expected, and he turned away to the window as he considered what he’d just said, and the feelings he associated with it.</p><p>
  <em>I hope I saved him.</em>
</p><p>Laurent couldn’t save everyone, he knew that. Maybe he was doing this so he could feel useful again, like he could stay and help and not be shipped off somewhere because he was only a <em>boy –</em></p><p>‘Laurent?’</p><p>Laurent looked up, saw the concern on Paschal’s face, and wiped hastily at his cheeks with the sleeve of his cassock. ‘I’m fine. What were you saying?’</p><p>Paschal took a breath and shook his head. ‘Nothing. Clean your hands and get some food. I’ll stay with him.’</p><p>‘I… yes. Thank you.’</p><p>‘Maybe go back to the beach, but find me a shell this time.’</p><p>Laurent nodded. Once, brisk, and left the room.</p><p>***</p><p>‘Do you think he’s going to wake up?’ Laurent asked, standing with Paschal outside the isolation cell. ‘In the night, I mean.’</p><p>Paschal shrugged. ‘Maybe. He might sleep until morning, or he might sleep for days. There’s no way to tell. Are you afraid of what might happen when he does?’</p><p>Laurent frowned, considering their interactions when he had been conscious. He hadn’t acted in a way that made him think he’d be violent towards him. ‘No,’ he found himself saying. ‘No, I think he understood what I meant when I tried to explain I wanted to help him.’</p><p>‘He spoke to you?’ Paschal asked, eyebrow raised. ‘Did he say anything else?’</p><p>‘He didn’t actually say much I understood, except for repeating what I’d said, like he was agreeing with me.’</p><p>‘What language was he speaking?’</p><p>‘I don’t know, but he understood… one of the Byzantine languages. Greek, I think.’</p><p>‘Interesting,’ Paschal murmured. ‘Do you speak that?’</p><p>‘Not much, but I was tutored in it for a year or so as a boy by one of the travellers who stayed with us a while.’</p><p>‘Four languages under your belt is an impressive feat, Laurent. Maybe I should’ve left you writing books.’</p><p>‘Ah, but then I never would’ve found this man on the beach, and he’d be dead in the sand.’</p><p>‘He may still be dead in the sand, Laurent,’ Paschal said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘I trust you can handle him by yourself if he <em>does </em>become violent?’</p><p>‘Of course,’ Laurent nodded. ‘I’ll take responsibility for him.’</p><p>‘In that case, I am to bed. Goodnight, Laurent, remember to hide those weapons.’</p><p>‘Of course, goodnight, Paschal,’ Laurent said, watching the older man leave the infirmary, and hearing his heavy gait as he made his way down the stairs to the dormitories.</p><p>Laurent took a deep breath, and quickly took the man’s weapons from the table in the isolation cell, hiding them in the storeroom under spare blankets. He brushed his hands down his cassock as he returned to the cell, a lamp in hand as he settled on the chair in the corner. He’d brought it in from the infirmary proper, because he didn’t want to miss anything that might happen, and he didn’t want to stay standing while he watched the man like a hawk.</p><p>He pulled a piece of wood and a small whittling knife from the pouch at his waist, and started carving small pieces of wood off. He wasn’t very good at this and never had been, but he’d decided recently he needed a hobby, and had bartered for his knife from traders in the village. If the abbot – or indeed, any of his brothers – found out he had it, he’d likely get a <em>very </em>serious talking to.</p><p>Time usually felt like it went by quickly while he did this, and tonight was no exception. It could’ve been two hours, it could’ve been two minutes when the man stirred, and shattered Laurent’s concentration.</p><p>It was just a small move – barely a twitch of his feet – but as he’d been lying still as the dead since Paschal had sewed him back together, it was enough to have Laurent up and at his bedside.</p><p>‘Are you awake?’ Laurent muttered, not expecting an answer. He pulled the blankets down to the man’s hip, inspecting the bandages by the dim light of his candle, and ran his fingertips lightly over the clean fabric. ‘That’s good, at least.’ Laurent stood properly, less stooped than he’d needed to be to see the bandages properly.</p><p>Something glinted in the light of the candle, drawing Laurent’s gaze, to where the man’s eyes were open and watching him.</p><p>Laurent swallowed and took a step back. He wasn’t scared of this man, not yet, but his calmness was almost unnerving. ‘Laurent,’ Laurent repeated. ‘I’m Laurent, I saved – <em>I help. </em>I… <em>Ocean? Help?’</em></p><p>The man cleared his throat, and said something in his almost-familiar language, eyes drifting pointedly to the water jug on the table.</p><p>‘Right, water.’ Laurent quickly went to the jug keeping himself half-turned toward the bed. He didn’t want to be strangled from behind.</p><p>The man, however, made no move, except to push himself up the bed a little more, accepting the cup and taking a short sip before he drained the cup. He nodded in thanks as he gave the cup back, before settling back down into the bed.</p><p>‘You don’t look like you’re in too much pain,’ Laurent tilted his head, coming over to put the back of his hand against the man’s forehead. ‘No fever, either. Maybe I <em>was </em>able to get you help in time. Get some rest, some – some <em>sleep</em>,’ he said, mimicking putting his head on a pillow. <em>‘Sleep help.’</em></p><p>The man rolled his eyes, but dutifully shut his eyes.</p><p>Laurent nodded to himself and went back to his chair, picking up his wood and knife from where he’d abandoned it.</p><p>‘Damianos.’</p><p>Laurent looked up. That was a clear word, but Laurent didn’t understand it. Was that a request? A command? ‘What – <em>what?’</em> he asked, quickly correcting to the language he knew this man understood.</p><p>‘My name is Damianos.’ That… that was – he knew Saxon.</p><p>‘You understand me?’</p><p>‘Of course I understand you,’ <em>Damianos </em>said. ‘I’m the son of a lord, I have been well tutored.’</p><p>‘My name is –’</p><p>‘Laurent. I remember.’</p><p>‘And you’re Damianos.’</p><p>Damianos made a low, vaguely unimpressed noise that turned into a chuckle. ‘Your accent butchers my name. Call me Damen.’</p><p>‘Damen.’</p><p>‘Mm,’ Damen moved, rolling his head to watch Laurent again, eyes catching the light of Laurent’s flame. ‘You’re a long way from home.’</p><p>‘How do you know that?’ Laurent asked, glancing up from his wood.</p><p>‘A name like Laurent? You’re not from here.’</p><p>‘A name like Damen, and you’re not either.’</p><p>‘No,’ Damen agreed. ‘I’m from a bit further than you, even. How did you end up here?’</p><p>‘How did <em>you</em>?’</p><p>‘Boat. Or if you mean here in your infirmary, a scheming brother.’</p><p>‘Same as me, it seems.’</p><p>‘Your brother tried to kill you?’ Damen sounded… surprised? ‘You must barely be a man, and your brother already tried to be rid of you?’</p><p>‘No.’ The word came out hard and harsh and with a violence that had Laurent gripping his knife like he intended to use it. ‘No, he did not. He left me here for protection.’</p><p>‘For protection? You are a monk.’</p><p>‘I have been here for nearly seven years,’ Laurent hissed. ‘This was not the plan.’</p><p>Damen waited until Laurent’s hand had relaxed on the hilt of his knife again. ‘I am sorry.’</p><p>‘What for?’</p><p>‘The betrayal of a beloved brother is not an easy thing to handle.’</p><p>‘My brother did not betray me.’</p><p>‘If he left you here with the intent to come back for you and has failed to make good on that promise, then I would think that a betrayal,’ Damen said softly. ‘Whether he is alive or dead, he has left you here, and I’m sorry.’</p><p>‘How do you know I don’t like it here? Maybe I’m perfectly happy with my life.’</p><p>‘You hold that knife like you understand how it works. I don’t think a man such as you would be easily taken by the life of a monk.’</p><p>Laurent ground his teeth together. ‘I liked you better unconscious.’</p><p>Damen sighed. ‘A sentiment shared by my brother.’</p><p>‘You don’t seem as angry about his betrayal as I do by mine.’</p><p>‘I don’t think my brother’s betrayal is as complex as yours. You were betrayed for protection, for your own good, it seems. My brother stabbed me in the gut with intent to kill me. I have come to terms with this.’</p><p>‘I do not envy you,’ Laurent said quietly. ‘As long as my brother’s fate remains a mystery, I can’t be sure whether or not he has betrayed me, whether he has…’</p><p>‘Whether he has what?’ Damen asked after a moment. ‘Whether he has died?’</p><p>‘Whether he has condemned me to this simple, <em>chaste </em>life.’</p><p>‘Is chastity your biggest concern? You didn’t fuck a girl before you came here?’</p><p>‘I fucked,’ Laurent said flatly. ‘I still do. I would simply prefer if I didn’t have to leave the walls of my home to do it and hide my sin.’</p><p>‘Sin,’ Damen repeated. ‘Your God knows your sins whether you’re here or there, correct?’</p><p>‘Apparently, but my brothers knowing as well is something entirely different.’</p><p>‘You –’</p><p>‘You should sleep,’ Laurent interrupted. ‘I trust you won’t be stupid enough to leave your bed in the night?’</p><p>‘My father’s physician would have my head if you didn’t.’</p><p>‘Good,’ Laurent said, standing from the chair. ‘I’m going to sleep in the infirmary. Do you need anything before I leave?’</p><p>‘More water?’</p><p>Laurent poured a second cup, bringing it to Damen and waiting for him to finish the contents. ‘How do you feel?’</p><p>Damen made a noise, settling into the bed. ‘Fine. A little cold.’</p><p>‘I can close the window.’</p><p>‘No, I prefer it open. The sea reminds me of my home.’</p><p>‘Another blanket, then?’</p><p>‘Please.’</p><p>Laurent went next door to the storeroom, pulling a thinner blanket off the shelf and returning to the isolation cell. He didn’t know why he was surprised Damen was still in there, but he schooled his face into neutrality as he flicked the blanket over him. ‘I will, unfortunately, have to lock you in here. For peace of mind, you understand.’</p><p>‘I understand,’ Damen nodded. ‘One more question.’</p><p>‘Yes?’</p><p>‘Am I naked under these blankets?’</p><p>Laurent blinked. ‘Yes.’</p><p>‘So you’ve seen –’</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p>‘Right.’</p><p>Laurent went back to the table, gathering his things and taking the lamp. ‘Goodnight, Damen.’</p><p>Damen hummed. <em>‘Goodnight, Laurent.’</em></p><p>Laurent stopped in his tracks. It was like he’d seen a ghost – <em>heard </em>a ghost. No one at the monastery spoke his native tongue, the last time he’d heard it being the day he was left here. <em>‘You speak my language?’ </em>he asked, the words gentle and familiar as they left his lips on an exhale Laurent felt deep in his bones.</p><p><em>‘Better than you speak mine,’ </em>Damen said softly. <em>‘Like I said – well tutored.’</em></p><p>Laurent pursed his lips, letting Damen’s grasp of the words wrap around and envelope him, a comfort after his last few days. <em>‘Thank you.’</em></p><p>
  <em>‘Of course. Goodnight.’</em>
</p><p><em>‘Goodnight,’ </em>Laurent repeated, pulling the door closed.</p><p>Whether it was a conscious decision or not, Laurent couldn’t say. Either way, he didn’t lock the door.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>let us all vibe in the knowledge that medieval history is not my forte and this fic will not be my new <i>chasm between us</i> <strike>which u should read if u haven't. im biased af but i promise it's good and considerably more accurate than this will be lmao</strike></p><p><i>edit:</i> the "saxon" language laurent and damen are speaking is intended as west saxon or anglo-saxon, not high/middle/old/upper etc. i <i>think</i> these are modern names to delineate which area and period the saxon language and its relatives are spoken in so i've just yeeted saxon as a general term more than anything. but to clarify bc idk if it's actually going to come up - laurent's monastery is somewhere along the english coast. where exactly remains a mystery to us all. (probably somewhere in the south, if they're speaking west saxon lol)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>find me on <a href="http://twitter.com/daamiaanos">twitter</a> and <a href="http://damiaanos.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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